


Twelve Days of Christmax

by SomeSleepySloth



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28315422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeSleepySloth/pseuds/SomeSleepySloth
Summary: The poem goes,'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;The children were nestled all snug in their bedsBut in reality, are they?As Magnus and Alec will shortly find out, no, their child was most definitely not snug in his bed.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Twelve Days of Christmax

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AceOnIce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOnIce/gifts).



> This is for the amazing [AceOnIce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOnIce/pseuds/AceOnIce) who is a precious bean. 
> 
> Merry Christmas.
> 
> This fic is not beta'd because I am not asking my beta to beta a fic for herself. That'd be hilarious.

“Merry Christmas, Alexander,” Magnus mumbles, as he leans up to press a kiss against his husband’s lips. The kiss lands somewhere between Alec’s cheek and nose in his grogginess.

“Merry Christmas, Magnus,” Alec grunts out as he tilts his head slightly to connect their lips. They trade lazy morning kisses, morning breath be damned, hands roaming over bare skin, still warm from sleep. A thumb reaches up to brush against the newly-formed scar on Alec’s hip, tracing the ridges of the bumpy surface. The wound had proven resistant to the Iratze rune and Magnus’ magic. A blemish marring his otherwise perfect skin. 

Alec had joked that it made him look like a badass Head of the Institute, Magnus had just been relieved to have his husband alive. The scar reassures Magnus that his husband is alive, that he would fight tooth and nail to remain alive. The wedding rings they both wore, never leaving their side even for a second, is a reminder that they have each other to fight for, and live for. 

But now? Now, there’s more at stake, the tattoo on their right ring fingers prove just that, the cursive script bearing Max’s name and his birth date looping around their fingers. Magnus bears just three marks on his body, his cat eyes, wedding ring, and tattoo, identifying him as a warlock, husband, and father.

Alec interlaces his fingers with Magnus’ and brings it up to his lips, brushing a soft kiss against his knuckles. The warlock glances up to see hazel eyes gazing down softly at him, a knowing look on Alec’s face, as if he knew what Magnus was thinking about. “I’m fine Magnus, I’m fine,” he soothes, thumb caressing the back of Magnus’ hands.

The tenderness of it sends a rush of affection surging through the warlock, his heart beating with love for his husband. Much as others have teased Magnus for being garrulous, there were some things he struggled to talk about, the constant fear that one day, Alec won’t be fine. That the injury would be too serious, too deep, too… _fatal_. It terrifies him that he has no idea how he will ever recover from that, a scar on his heart that might never heal. 

He wishes there was a guidebook for this; _“How to Tell Your Mortal Husband You Want Him to Be Immortal for Dummies”_ would be a good start. Shadowhunter and Downworlder relationships weren’t exactly common, leaving him with few confidants. Cat and Dot were great listening ears, but were unable to provide any advice, for they had no experience being in Magnus’ shoes. 

The issue of mortality weighs on his soul daily, but as Alec draws him deeper into his embrace and noses at his sleep-mussed hair, inhaling the lingering scent of his sandalwood shampoo, Magnus decides this could wait. It is Christmas after all, he will save the maudlin thoughts for another day.

Resting his head on Alec’s pecs, his tongue darts out to swirl around his husband’s nipple lazily. Magnus smirks when the grip around his hand tightens and a startled gasp spills from the Shadowhunter’s lips. A playful bite elicits a hiss of his name and a moan.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” Alec groans out, even as he angles his body towards Magnus’, resting his thigh against the warlock’s groin. It is a proceeding that Magnus’ cock is highly interested in, judging by how it slowly hardens in his pyjama bottoms. He thrusts up lazily, enjoying the arousal that gradually builds. The Shadowhunter obligingly keeps his thigh pressed firmly against Magnus’ cock, murmuring words of encouragement in his ear, whilst maintaining the friction that the warlock craves. 

He pushes their interlocked fingers down suddenly. Magnus catches on quickly, reaching into Alec’s pants, and wrapping his fingers around his husband’s erection, luxuriating in how it sits hot and heavy in his palm. Timing his thrusts in coordination with his strokes, he feels that familiar tightening in his belly, before he comes with Alexander’s name on his lips. 

As Magnus comes down from his high, his grip on Alec’s cock slackens briefly, but the keening noises from the Shadowhunter brings him out of his post-orgasmic haze. “Magnus, please,” Alec pleads, his head thrown back as he writhes in bed. The warlock duly tightens his fingers around Alec’s cock. 

“Come on Alexander,” he murmurs, his other hand drifting down to fondle Alec’s balls, “nearly there.” It doesn’t take long before the Shadowhunter spills in Magnus’ hand. A snap of his fingers eradicates the sticky mess they had just created.

“Merry Christmas to me indeed,” Alec says as he kisses Magnus.

The warlock snorts and pinches his husband’s side. “If you think an orgasm is all that you are getting for Christmas, you’re sorely mistaken.” 

Alec doesn’t speak much of his childhood, but from the snippets that he drops into conversation, the warlock guesses that it wasn’t a particularly happy one. And the first time Magnus had celebrated Alec’s birthday with his family and friends, he had been aghast to discover that the gifts he got were rather utilitarian, a bow cleaning kit, a new quiver. They were all things that Alec would use in the course of his job, but what about what Alec enjoyed? 

They had only been together for a short time then, so Magnus had gone with something simple — a book that he had seen Alec lingering over on their last trip to the bookshop. When the Shadowhunter had opened the gift, he stroked the cover tenderly, a soft smile on his face as he stared at the book. “Thank you, Magnus,” he said gratefully. 

Since then, the warlock had endeavoured to keep that smile on his then-boyfriend’s face by showering him in thoughtful gifts. Initially whenever the Shadowhunter received a gift, he would ask in a baffled and panicked voice if he was missing a special anniversary. It had taken considerable effort for Magnus to get it through to Alec that no, one didn’t need a special occasion to justify giving gifts to others, and that he deserved gifts as amazing as the ones he gave out. Because it absolutely gutted Magnus to see Alec making all these thoughtful gestures that others around him didn’t seem to appreciate. His Shadowhunter deserved to be spoilt, and that was a task that Magnus was more than willing to carry out. It is still a work in progress, but one day, he will succeed. The warlock is nothing but _determined_.

“Give me a while, and we can start working on my second present,” Alec quips, before grunting in pain as his husband pinches him again.

“Come on, we should probably get out of bed,” Magnus replies as he turns to check the time on the bedside table, “it’s five already. Max will probably be up soon.”

Alec stretches slowly, his bones popping and cracking as he arches his back. “How generous of him to let us sleep in this year. By the angel, I have no idea how I am going to function on just five hours of sleep today. Especially with dinner later. Ugh.”

“That’s what coffee’s for, darling,” the warlock answers as he reluctantly removes himself from the bed, shivering slightly at the cold blast of air. “Come on, let’s go, before Max breaks our door down.”

Both men put on their dressing gowns, layered with warming spells to keep them warm, before making their way to their son’s bedroom. Alec is discussing the merits of adding raisins to cookies, of which Magnus maintains there is _none_ , when his voice tapers off and he comes to a stop. 

“What? What’s wrong, Alec?” Magnus asks before he catches sight of what has caused his husband to falter. The _two_ fathers stare in horror and bemusement at the scene before their eyes.

Because underneath their Christmas tree is _one_ Max Lightwood-Bane, fast asleep on the rug, surrounded by scraps of wrapping paper, torn and ripped into pieces. All _twelve_ pristinely wrapped presents are strewn around the rug. Their son is curled up around the stuffed shark that had been safely ensconced in candy cane wrapping paper when Alec and Magnus had gone to sleep five hours prior. His tiny limbs are wrapped around the toy, like a dragon guarding his treasure protectively. And sitting on his chest is Chairman Meow, his tail flicking lazily, as he keeps a watchful eye over his young charge. 

Their living room looks like a hurricane has passed through it, a three-year old warlock-shaped hurricane to be more specific. Even the stockings hanging by their fireplace haven't been spared; the bottoms of all _three_ stockings have been ripped, with the contents spilt all over the floor. And littered around Max are smashed ornaments, _six_ of them destroyed in the toddler’s attempt to reach for the presents under the Christmas tree. A cursory inspection of the candy dish on the coffee table uncovers _four_ missing candy canes. The wrappers are right beside the plate; the culprit definitely made no attempt to hide their tracks. 

It is easy for Magnus and Alec to reach the conclusion that Max had probably passed out after his sugar high. Shaking his head fondly, Alec strides forward to rouse their son, only to retreat when Chairman Meow hisses at him.

“What the fuck?” he asks, bewildered. 

“You have been replaced as the Chairman’s favourite,” Magnus declares smugly, “now you know how I feel, darling.”

Leaving his husband to despair over his displacement as Chairman Meow’s favourite person, he walks to the kitchen to prepare two steaming cups of coffee, adding a shot of Bailey’s in them. They were _definitely_ going to be needing that to get through the rest of today.

Trudging back to the living room, he sees a disgruntled Alec hunched over their sleeping son and Chairman Meow. “He hissed at me _eleven_ times,” Alec complains the minute Magnus crosses the threshold of their living room, a look of betrayal painted all over his face.

“How the tables have turned,” the warlock remarks casually. He passes his husband his cup of coffee before settling on the couch. Taking pity on his pouting Shadowhunter, Magnus waves his hand in the direction of Chairman Meow’s food bowl, filling it up with kibble. The tabby cat perks up at the sound of that and leaps off Max’s chest, darting towards the kitchen for his morning meal. 

_Ah, the second betrayal of the day_ , Magnus thinks to himself as he sips at his coffee. Betrayed in the name of food, although it is admittedly rather delicious kibble.

The Shadowhunter gently shakes their son’s shoulder, “Max, wake up.” The toddler rolls over and snuggles into his shark instead. 

“Max Lightwood-Bane,” Alec tries again, this time with a louder voice. And it works like a charm. Their young son jerks awake, eyes wide with shock, and the first word out of his mouth is “I didn’t do anything!”

Magnus hides his grin in his cup, because amusing as this moment is, it probably also called for some sterness. “Are you sure, Blueberry?” he calls out.

Alec pins the boy with an unamused glare as he waves his hand gesturing to the mess around them. Blueberry’s eyes dart about, probably trying to find a way to dig himself out of this mess. When he fails to find a defence, given the insurmountable evidence around him, his bottom lip trembles dangerously.

“No, Max, crying won’t get you out of this,” Alec warns, but it is too late. Their devious son has begun the waterworks, and his fathers are helpless in the face of that. Alec reaches out to hug their crying son with a sigh, as the boy blubbers on about how he didn’t mean to, he just wanted to see Santa’s presents, and make sure he got the correct ones. A load of bullshit, in Alec’s opinion, but he comforts his son all the same, tucking away the disappointment at being deprived of seeing the elation on Max’s face as he opens each present. There is always next year, he figures, as well as birthdays.

While the sobbing gets Max out of an immediate scolding, it doesn’t help him escape his punishment. He is sent to stand in his timeout corner for _ten_ minutes while his fathers clean up the mess. It takes _nine_ long lectures to drum it into Max’s head that gifts are only opened on Christmas morning and that _no_ , Santa does not need baby warlocks acting as his quality checkers for the presents delivered.

By the time their family and friends arrive at the loft for Christmas dinner, Magnus and Alec are exhausted, even after the _eight_ cups of coffee they have consumed. Eight cups of coffee _each._ Witnessing the way his mother interacts with Max, willingly lying on the rug to play trains with him, helping him fix his Potions kit, he feels a stab of jealousy. Because why couldn’t he have gotten this too? It feels ridiculous to feel envious of his son, especially when his merry laughter fills the air, brightening the atmosphere. 

Magnus comes up beside him then, and slips his hand into Alec’s, giving it a gentle squeeze, the ‘I’m here for you’ unspoken. It astounds and gratifies Alec that his husband knows him so well, offering comfort before he even asks for it.

“Thank you,” Alec whispers.

Max’s Christmas morning exploit is a hit with all _seven_ of their dinner guests, judging by the boisterous laughter, with Simon nearly falling off his chair. Alec most definitely did not nudge the chair’s leg, tipping it over. Of course not, he is an excellent role model for his son.

Later that night, after tucking Max into bed with the stern reminder not to sneak out _again_ , Alec crashes face first into bed with his husband. Magnus heaves himself to rest on his husband’s chest, landing with a weary groan. The Shadowhunter has never been more appreciative of his husband’s magic than at this present moment, when one snap of his fingers rids them of their clothes and pulls the duvet up, shielding them from the winter chill.

“Next year, we are warding the fucking Christmas tree,” Magnus mumbles, voice thick with exhaustion.

Alec’s answer is a loud snore.

* * *

_One passed out son,_

_Two pissed off dads,_

_Three torn stockings,_

_Four candies eaten,_

_Five hours of sleep,_

_Six smashed ornaments,_

_Seven amused relatives,_

_Eight cups of coffee,_

_Nine long lectures,_

_Ten min’s of time out,_

_Eleven cat hisses,_

_And_

_Twelve presents opened_


End file.
